


Calling Chaos

by butthulu, D4gm4rs, thescyfychannel



Series: Four Steps Closer [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Mind Control, Multi, Rebellionstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-21 15:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17645723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butthulu/pseuds/butthulu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/D4gm4rs/pseuds/D4gm4rs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: Joining a burgeoning rebellion can have something of a negative effect on your social life, a problem that varies in severity depending on the troll.Sollux Captor has never seen a lack of a social life as a particularlyseriousissue, but then again, he's going to need someone else to talk to if these stupid, self-sacrificial idiots, keep getting involved in shit that's going to get them killed.Right now, though, he's stuck choosing between GillGill, the violet boy wonder; Heretic Lad, the mutant that's a littletoogood at keeping everyone's shit together; and, let's not forget, the crazy tyrian feral (sort of??) in their cells whomightbe out to kill them all.It's going great. Really.





	1. Running Setup Sequence

**TAKE TEN PART TWO: SOLLUX**

 

_the wind that rises, the skies that sing_

_the power racing just beneath the surface of your skin_

_these are the things that set you apart_

_these are the things that call your soul to be_

 

* * *

  

When you walk out of the room, you turn towards Vriska Serket. The two of you have had more occasion to work together than you would have liked, but then, you were the best equipped to handle all of her hoofbeastshit. In this case, all you have to do is raise an eyebrow and she's already scowling.

"It's not easy, Captor," Serket says, reproach in every up-down screeching syllable of her voice. "Even with Karkat doing his merry little tap dance all over her emotions a second time, the cracks I made during that first interview aren't anywhere big enough." You're regretting taking this assignment, you're regretting not taking your meds, you're regretting not enforcing that shoot on sight order you were pretty fucking sure you'd put in place for fuchsias. "I'm serious, Tyrians are harder to read than violets, and it's not like you've been giving me enough time to practice on either! I wouldn't even be able to do anything if it weren't for Karkat's first run, and the fact that she's _most_ used to unsubtle mental attacks—"

"What do you mean?" You don't usually interrupt her, it's not worth the bitching, but you want to redirect her train of thought momentarily, onto this very important topic, before she tangents herself.

Serket rolls her eyes. "Someone else has been trying to fuck around in her mind, and failing, but she's used to a certain type of approach, which, conveniently for us! Leaves her wide open to _my_ way."

Tempted as you are to comment on small mercies, or make a joke about Serket's way being too twisty for _anyone_ to keep up with, you hold your tongue, for once, and try not to snicker when the universe shudders over it. Time and trials—being a rebel on the run, even—have taught you better, you'd always learned your lessons quicker than anyone else. A key one, at such a delicate time, is not pissing off the asset.

Besides. When you don't react to that as usual, one of Serket's eyebrows goes high, and she immediately looks two shades more serious. She's already learned a lesson of her own: if you're not cracking jokes, that means shit is seriously up. "Uh, right, well—it's probably a good thing, because that's one of the more fucked up minds I've seen. Everything she's saying? She actually believes it, but she's _also_ just saying it to get the reactions she wants."

"Do I want to ask which it is, or am I going to get more 'the duality of troll' type shit?"

"Look, Captor, I'd give you something else if I could. She's not lying about what's happened to her, and she genuinely means it when she says shit like—uh, like. What happened to her. And not wanting to think about it or talk about it—it's really fucked up, like she's weaponized her own mind and reactions and hooooooooly shit did you boys get a reaction when Eridan walked in there." Serket glances over her shoulder, and you wish that you were startled to see actual fear in her eyes. She's not the only one this newcomer has on edge. "That makes sense, at least. If some other psychic's been picking at her mental defenses every time she's in their power's range, I can definitely see how things would have crystallized like that."

Crystallized? You've heard several of Vriska's descriptions of minds, and their inhabitants, but you've never heard anything like that. "Fill a hopelessly lost guy in. How do you mean, crystallized?"

"I can't think of another way to describe it," she tells you, gesturing—it's reminiscent of spikes, up until her hands twist into something of a curve. "Almost like glass? Everything is...brittle, but sharp. You can't charge in without breaking something, and once you break something, she'll know, and more than that, you'll cut yourself. Defense and offense in the form of...well, showing off a shit defense. It's _possible_ there's something else underneath there, but..."

"Right," you say, and turn your attention back to Eridan. He's pacing in the corner, but you're almost sure he's heard every word. "Thanks."

 

* * *

 

Skeptical hadn't been the worst word to describe you when Eridan fucking Ampora, of all people, had showed up at your hive one fine night. He'd shoved his way in, managing to slip a note into your hand when he grabbed at you—and then the shouting match had begun. It wasn't hard to fight with the finfaced chute entrance, you had a million and one things to hold against him, but "start an argument with me and start packing anything you care about" written in Karkat Vantas' own hand had thrown you a little bit. Eridan, for his part, had gone around punching walls and making a general ruckus, as the two of you rowed. He hadn't left until everything was packed (and you were grateful for the fact that he was _damn_ good at sparking your argumentative tendencies because you'd gotten down to 999,999 things pretty damn quick), at which point he threw something small and dark at you that you'd barely caught with your psionics.

When he was gone, you looked it over, still shaking. Being yelled at by a seadweller—even one who didn't seem to be _actually_ angry—did things to your adrenaline that you did not want to talk about.

Discovering that said seadweller had left you a burner tablet was another thing that went on the "do not want to talk about" list pretty damn quick.

 

It took Karkat half an hour to calm you down via text, then another half hour to convince you that no, you weren't going to die. When the (hacked) drones showed up alongside the Imperial ones, you put up a believable fight, devastating their ranks easily, before letting yourself be taken by the ones that Karkat had discreetly marked. Eridan, he informed you, would be back later to "loot" your hive.

Being "kidnapped" to the secret rebellion's secret hideaway base could easily be labeled one of the most traumatic experiences of your life, if it hadn't been followed up by several new discoveries on what the fuck was going on in your world (turns out, psionics who kept their spines didn't _actually_ go feral, thanks Imperial Propaganda), how shit was going all to hell (the Condesce's reach had begun to exceed her grasp, and trolls as a species were in danger), and how your only possible route for survival was either going rogue or joining the rebellion.

 

You find out very quickly how stupid you're willing to be when )(er Imperious Condescension's goons come after everyone and everything you care about, even a tiny little bit. Not that you weren't a godsdamn fucking idiot before, but now you've REALLY gone over the Handmaid's horns.

It's worse than it was a half-perigee ago, in your opinion, because of the new guest. Having a little piece of _)(er_ in here, no matter how small that little piece might be, is a recipe for a six course meal of disasters.

Not that anyone's listening to you more than usual. Sure, they'll take your advice, but the moment you say "why don't we just, you know, kill her before she turns on us and sells our souls to the IRL version of a troll devil", KK starts off on a spiel that sounds like a troll anime protagonist's pump 'em up bit and Ampora gets all...stoic, talking about what is necessary for the good of the rebellion, no matter the weight someone's life may hold.

You're reasonably sure you're turning into the genre-savvy secondary character (comic relief or quadrantal interest, you haven't decided which just yet) at an alarming rate, and yet, you can't bring yourself to care—you kind of fucking hate the limelight. And puzzles you don't have enough pieces to solve.

Your stupid friends have shoved you into the first, and their stupid strays are full of the second.

 

Eventually, you're going to have to have a serious talk with them about what the ever-loving fuck they think they're doing.


	2. Loading...

There's a certain kind of rightness to being inside the systems block, and a certain kind of feeling that settles onto your shoulders whenever you walk into the server room. ED’s called it “the mantle settlin’ on your shoulders”, whatever the fuck that means, and KK’s called it _responsibility,_ which, in your elevated opinion, is _much_ worse. Your carefully curated information on potential hacking rivals (Handmaid, you feel like you're in some edgy GrubTube computer-centric series) has become something of a blessing when it comes to recruitment. Wriggler feuds aside, most psionics out there don't _actually_ want to be conscripted into the more literal side of the shipping sector, and getting them onboard a very different route (you'll stop the puns any night now, you swear) hasn't been difficult.

Vetting them for who _might_ be turned traitor by quads, or already be hacked by the Empire's hackerrenders? You wouldn't call it _difficult_ , but you might call it fun, and you get very few chances to have fun these nights.

“Heads up, grublings and grublets!” You picked up the drill sergeant voice from either ED or KK, but neither will cop to that. “We’re digging into deleted content and vanishing traces tonight _and_ today, leave no conspiracy board unsearched, leave no nutjob uninterviewed, leave no references untracked—I want all the information you can get me on our newest friend, and before you play innocent and go ‘but Spymaster Captor _what_ friend?’ I will tell you here and now that if you don’t already know who we’re playing host to, you are _nowhere_ near ready to survive on my team.”

Your current batch of nerdlings is a well-trained and intelligent one: Not a word is offered against your orders, and even though several smirks are shared (you have a feeling you’re going to get memed before the night is out), you don’t have to _hear_ the insubordination you’re sure is occurring.

No, all you have to do is take a comfortable seat at your own rectangular work furniture and get searching yourself. It’s a damn good system—you’d know, you built it yourself.

 

The next time you look up, it’s because someone’s shoved a hot distinctive containment platter of food right under your nose—which you wrinkle, at the scent of warm cheese and hot meat. “What, no fish?”

Eridan Ampora, who’s gotten into the habit of passive-aggressively bringing you whatever meals you skip (KK keeps insisting it’s how he pitchflirts), rolls his eyes at you. “Last time I brought fish, you bitched for an hour, so yeah, no fish.”

You smirk up at him, because you know it’ll get you the reaction you want (he scowls, point you) and lift the containment platter out of his hands with your psionics (the scowl deepens, and you chalk up another point for yourself). “Maybe somenight my refined palate will expand enough to include fish.” When he blushes—a little thing, the barest violet tinting his fins—your smirk widens into a grin. “So what brings you to this den of wires and sparks?”

It’s a reasonable question: other than his little pitch-ish flirting gestures, Ampora seldom ventures down here. You’re reasonably sure it’s something to do with all the static and psionic power flying around, and his electrosensitivity, but you’ve continued to pretend it’s due to his utter technological illiteracy. Much more fun for everyone that way.

“Just...wonderin’ what, uh...” The end of his sentence (which he’d mumbled, more than said) trails off to an unhappy ending.

For once in your life, you go easy on the guy. “What we’ve found so far?” He nods, and you, caught in the middle of stretching your spine out to the sound of several satisfying pops, barely remember to hide a grimace. “For all the info out there, your ex-BFF might as well be a ghost. I mean, we’ve had _better_ luck, now that I’ve redirected people to the conspiracy boards and nutjobs, but…”

“But?”

“We’ll be hitting the point where I’m considering asking Serket for help pretty quick.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and the way he emphasizes it resonates with the depths of your soul. _Fuck_ indeed.

 

There’s not that much else you can do for him, but he doesn’t look likely to leave any time, even if he’s shifting uncomfortably and his fins are pinned all the way back against his head. You look him over for a moment, mindful of the tension twisting him tighter than any helical metal coil, and come to a calculated decision before he even opens his mouth to offer his own assistance. “Want to spar?”

 

* * *

 

Ampora is never more than two minutes from a strife, a theory you’ve tested time and time again, but given that KK has him in charge of commanding _and_ training the forces, it works out nicely for him. There’s almost always someone willing to take him on, and if there isn’t someone _willing_ , there’s someone who’s on punishment detail.

Sparring with _you_ , though, is a rare and underrated treat that he rarely gets, and you can see the anticipation in his eyes, in the set of his fins, in the way he wraps his hands without taking his eyes off of you.

You maybe spend a little too much time studying Eridan Ampora.

Not that you’d admit it.

 

“Rules?” His voice has all the tones of testing, curiosity at the boundaries you’ll set, what limits he can push. Maybe you’d be mad, if you didn’t recognize yourself in it so easily.

“Whatever you’d like to set.”

His eyes gleam, and you, for a moment, regret your offer. “Blood’s fair game,” he says, and he starts up the spar, pacing towards you, circular motions that curl into your extra senses like waves. “To broken bone or knock out. Tapping out’s allowed.”

“Sounds fair,” you say, and pick up your own feet to complete the circle. It’s a pattern of the sort you don’t usually like to chase, but when you're up against a seadweller—

 

Well. Old habits have always been harder for you to break.

 

Your curving motion turns into a jagged one, a slash out that's followed up quick, psionics that cut and burn the air. He ducks underneath it—no, he _throws_ himself underneath it, diving into a forward roll that would bring him directly to your feet if it weren't for the way you leap into the air once more (once more, against the hundreds of times the two of you have done this before). "Not bad," you offer, from your perch. He gives you a snarl in response, and you slash power downwards, heading for the far corner of the room.

One thing you've taught Eridan Ampora as much as he's taught you: it's not just the ocean that lets you fight in any direction. _Direction_ , you'd told him, outlining the basics of a psionic's—of a _helmsman's_ —role, _is as meaningless as the incredibly busy, aggressively empty, depths of outer space._

He'd taken it to heart. At least, you thought he had at the time and he proves he did now, dodging left to avoid your second blast, leaping off the ground at an angle to bound off the wall, rebound towards the ceiling—

You drop just in time; Ampora all but crashes into the corner you'd claimed as your own and you find yourself hanging out in thin air again, as he grabs for purchase.

Whoever designed these rooms with extra ropes and bars is an asshole—he swings himself up and over and onto one, and you swear under your breath, dropping down to the middle space of the playing field as he follows your patterns of movement, leaping from beam to beam.

He laughs: it’s a wild thing, and it settles somewhere deep in your chest. “Watch your language, Captor, you’ll set a bad example!”

“For _who_?”

Even before he gestures towards the “off limits” section—a square of polished wood, the only place in this sparring block not covered in padding—you know. KK whistles up at you, and you throw a finger up in his general direction. “I’m going to dock your pay for insubordination, Captor!”

“Oh, goodie, so I’ll be making _one_ caegar a year instead of two, then?”

You will readily admit that you don’t often play fair, regardless of situation, even if you _won’t_ admit that this is one of those times. Seadwellers— _Eridan_ —are easy to distract, if you know how to do it, and bantering with Karkat is one of several ways you’ve found.

His attention flickers between the two of you, and when you feel it snap back to Karkat, as Karkat winds himself up for an expertly crafted retort, you take the shot.

 

* * *

 

 _Psionics are the natural predator of all seatrolls_ , the ancient pages had said. It had been moved from written tome repository to written tome repository, passing itself off as an innocuous book by virtue of being completely untranslatable. With )(er Imperious Condescension’s rise to power, things like “translating pesky dialects” had been put on the backburner in favor of things like ripping out spines and putting down rebellions. _Just as the lightning cuts unpunished through the sea, their greatest defenses against us—their electrosensitivity, their fins, their gills, even their bioluminescence—are their greatest weaknesses._ Real pity about that.

It’s not the only such piece. Scholarsonists of old seemed to pride themselves on gathering the information—pictures of paintings, rubbings and tracings done of old carvings, carefully preserved scrolls and tomes—without actually discerning what they meant. _The seadwellers know of our power and fear us for it. They dare not venture past the islands they so jealously guard, or the few beaches they’ve managed to claim. We’ve defeated their advances inland at every turn, and yet, they seem determined to conquer the land as well as the sea: amusing, at first, worrisome, now that there are whispers of a growing power in the deeps. Perhaps the disparate tribes finally learning how to band together?_

The anecdotal sections you’d passed off to Eridan for his perusal. Something about reading them made you feel...uncomfortable, in ways you weren’t quite ready to dissect. Instead, you focused on the almost clinical ones. _Seatrolls communicate with their fins, another set of sensitive electroreceptors. These are easily overwhelmed, but can also be used to track movements in an air or water current, or shifts in power and electricity._ It had almost felt like a kind of voyeurism, learning everything your ancestors had known, starting to see seadwellers the way your ancestors had, and over and over—

 

 _The psionic is the natural predator of the seadweller_.

 

You’d seen the phrase repeated more times than you could count, now, iteration after iteration in each of the engravings, the tomes, the records, written, carved, and preserved in their own way, with thousands of implications _other_ than the incredibly visible one—the only one that, when it came down to it, actually mattered at all.

And when you had taken your findings to Eridan, he’d raised an eyebrow at you and gently pushed the translation back into your hands. You’d continued to stare, absolutely dumbfounded.

“Sol,” he’d said, his tone gentle, like he was afraid you might spook. “I knew that already.”

 

Your bewildered—and _concerned_ —expression hadn’t changed, apparently, and it had supposedly only gotten worse as he attempted to explain the matter: Yes, he knew that was the case, and so did almost every other seadweller. The way he told it, it was as if most of them were hatched knowing, and a good deal of the issues and propaganda that most psionics faced were _apparently_ a direct result of that knowledge.

He’d kept trying to explain things, as if he’d gotten stuck on a loop, as if it was the only way he knew to help ease things. It might’ve if he’d been explaining in the right direction—if he’d _actually_ realized what exactly had you so thrown.

 

He _knew_ what a danger you were. He’d seen you in action. And yet, every time you’d sparred, he’d faced you willingly, almost _cheerfully_. You’d assumed that some of his sheer confidence (cockiness, ballsiness, you’d substituted a million different terms) had come from the nigh-invincibility that came along with violet blood, the promise of more years and more health than any sane troll could count.

But he’d known, the entire time, that your kind was shaped to destroy his.

 

It was enough to rattle your foundations a little, to leave you questioning everything you’d known.

 

* * *

 

Eridan Ampora slams into the wall with your blast, and he stumbles when he tries to get up. It’s nothing too serious, the both of you have fought through worse, but given the circumstances, it doesn’t much surprise you when Karkat calls the spar.

“If you two are _done_ adding to the massive amounts of damage )(er armies have already inflicted?” Even the usual acid dripping from his sarcasm has a new edge to it, and your expression twists for a moment, before you let yourself drop back to the ground.

“KK, if you wanted in, we totally would have been game to include you, you know.” You’re only half joking. Karkat Vantas is a formidable opponent, even with a set of blunted sparring sickles in his grasp fronds, and you’ve seen what happens to people who go up against him when he’s in a _mood_.

He's in one now: you would have guessed from the way he bares his fangs at your offer, if you hadn't already from the other shifts you'd seen in him. "Tempting as it is to turn your nonexistent ass into nothing more than a nightdream of barren dust, Captor, I have other shit to do, and so, for that matter, do you. Weren't you supposed to be tracking down information on our rogue tyrianblood?"

Static dances along your skin, and you shrug, a motion designed to thoroughly infuriate. "I was, and now I'm not, and I'm _guessing_ that you stomped in ferociously enough that all of my poor nerdlings were terrified into silence before they could give you the report."

"There's an actual report?"

 

Shit. You close your eyes, and try to ignore the almost _betrayed_ note you're hearing in Eridan's tone. "It's a compilation of all the shit everyone on the team found, ED, I asked them to finish it up before we left."

"Oh."

One down, one to go. Karkat doesn't look the least bit appeased by your offering; he raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. You're waiting for his toe to start tapping. "You're not wrong," he says, still fixing you with a bright red stare, known to frighten several lesser (and greater) trolls. "Perhaps you could explain why I wasn't sent the report as soon as it was finished?"

"An...oversight?" His expression does not change. "Fine, okay. I wanted more data before I actually shipped anything off, I wasn't sure if it—if a report like that, with all the shit we had to go wading through to find even _minimally_ plausible conjecture—would help things."

You left "or make them worse" unsaid, but KK's eyes cut to Eridan anyway, and you try not to cringe. It's very likely the prickly-proud seadweller will have noticed, but he doesn't say anything, and you decide to take the wins where you can get them. "Fine. Okay. Work with Serket and compare the memories and emotions she got to the conspiracy theorists you've found online, see what matches up against what. It's not the _best_ option, I know, but at least it might give us something better to go off of."

 

Your grimace is waved off, as Karkat leaves the room, and judging by the look Eridan gives you before he follows, you haven't quite been forgiven yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible fight scene comic was drawn by D4gm4rs!


	3. Comment Status: Hidden, Undefined

Vriska Serket, for once in her life, is actually easy to handle. You think something in that tyrian's mind might have had her spooked, or maybe she's just as done with all of this shit as you are, but between the two of you, you're chewing through various reports and thoughts at an almost alarming pace. The cynical side of you is waiting for something to jinx it.

 

CA: wwhat havve you found so far

 

It's not what you expected, but you’d been pretty sure you were slated for a far worse jinx anyway.

 

TA: lmao well ii'll tell you thii2 two 2tart wiith, mo2t of tho2e 2iightiing2?? not fake.

TA: actually a lot of the "liive" one2 wiith actiive liink2 are real?? we were kiind of que2tiioniing why THO2E diidn't get deleted, becau2e ba2ed on the fiigure2 Skarsi—you know, the one who triied two kneecap you duriing her traiiniing—diid up, fake 2hiit wa2 more liikely two get deleted than real 2hiit.

CA: holy fuck yeah i remember her ellyna skarsi excellent attack pattern

TA: LIIKE II WA2 2AYIING we fiigure iit'2 2omethiing two do wiith mii2diirectiion.

TA: there'2 enough of the fal2e 2hiit two leave 2ome kiind of traiil, and the real 2hiit that get2 left up ii2...2cattered. unbeliievable.

CA: adds to the legend

TA: yeah, p much.

TA:

TA: do you want two get iin on thii2? we could u2e 2omeone who know2 a liittle more about how )(er2elf thiink2.

CA:  
CA:  
CA:  
CA: ill think about it  


 

CA has disconnected!

 

You sigh, and Vriska rolls her eyes, presumably at you. "Something to say, VK?"

"Only that if you'd like to give me a little insider information on when you'll be done, you know, _pining_ , I can cut you in on some excellent wagers."

 

Refusing to dignify that with a response is the best course of action, in your opinion, regardless of how one Vriska Serket might feel about it, and you're rather grateful that you did when Eridan walks in.

"Not too late, am I?" He looks about as uncomfortable as you feel, but there's the determination you've come to know in his eyes once more. It's better this way, in your opinion—determination is much better than the uncertainty and fear that's been haunting him these past few nights.

Serket snorts, draping herself back across the comfortable single-seat relaxation lounger she'd commandeered. "You're _fine_ , Ampora, take a seat and join the party."

You've got a moment to be grateful you'd suggested a meeting in one of the better furnished spare blocks before Eridan ignores the two other single-seat relaxation loungers surrounding the wooden interaction platform to plop down on the opposite end of yours. Immediately, your ears burn golden, and Serket smirks, as she shoves a sheaf of papers across the platform to him. You're going to kick her ass, next time the two of you end up doing a demonstration spar. "So far we've been trying to build a timeline, and, uh, I mean, I told you about the weird trail of deletions, right? Right."

"Yeah," he says, picking up the "reports" you and Serket had spent comparing and compiling. They look like crap, covered in blue and red and cerulean marks and scribbles, with all kinds of notations and commentary added on wherever else you could. "Not a bad start. I can add some a what I've heard at court an' shit to this, see if it helps expand the timeline any. Some a these overlap with shifts in internal politics, an' you know how we—how, uh, coldbloods—get about that kind of shit."

 

Every time politics, seadwellers, the "highbloods" come up, you get to watch him try to distance himself further from his caste and his heritage. Usually, you're sharing a _he can't_ _go on like this forever_ look with Karkat, a little bit of concern and a little bit of gaze orb-rolling in every one. This time, you glance at Serket, and she's wearing a frown that you might peg as concerned if she wasn't the one wearing it. "Okay, so, what exactly should we be looking for, here? Are there any particular political shifts that you'd know about, or any you might be missing?"

Ampora frowns, as he flips the rudimentary timeline you've made over. "Can someone set this up in a program? Be easier for me to pull things in if I can see it all outlined an' shit."

"Tech geek shit is your realm, Captor," she says, tossing a new husktablet at you. You catch it with your psionics and flip her off with your grasp fronds— _sensible trolls would call them_ hands _, Captor,_ you hear Eridan say in your head: it’s what he _would_ say if he heard you using the warmblood term out loud and he wasn't being such a self-destructive idiot at the moment—before you let your powers get down to business, pulling information off the platform in sheets and notes. The timeline is projected between the three of you as you work, and you can _feel_ it in the system when Eridan's hands dip in—he's a tactile person, you've learned this too—to add in what he knows.

“Right there—that’s, uh, that one was me. An’ there’s a decent bit a backstory to this other incident—some a the clowns were gettin' a little bit uppity, an' she assigned them to the right place at the absolute wrong time." He's frowning, as he looks the scattered pieces of an invisible puzzle over, so focused that he almost doesn't notice Karkat come in. You notice this, because it is your job to pay attention to all of the smallest things, like the fact that his fins twitch towards the warmth as Karkat enters, like the way his eyes flick up and back down, like the fact that Karkat hadn't been supposed to get here for a while yet, if he could come at all—little things. "She's mostly put to work in situations where it'd be a hell of a lot harder to send in threshecutioners or cavalreapers or subjuggulators, and all the like. Shit where _S)(e_ can't send the coldbloods on account a the coldbloods are the ones s)(e wants dealt with."

"Fitting." KK's mutter is a little too dark for your liking, and you wrinkle your nose as you look at him, as if you're questioning his approach once more. His sunshine and buttercups act worked wonders on new recruits, and persons of uncertain loyalty, but you know he's a grumpy bastard under all of it, and probably all the more tired for having to lean into that shit so heavily as of late. "Okay, so, she's an assassin. How was she trained? There has to be _someone_ out there who can tell us more about her—no offense, Ampora, but even if you're the closest thing to an expert we've got, most of that expertise is coming from brief encounters and a lifetime hunting down every possible message about her _after_."

 

Eridan's expression is not one that gives you any sort of relief about potential issues in the future, but the way he backs down does: if he's willing to listen to Karkat on this, there's a chance that he'll be willing to listen on other things as well, such as not trying to romance the gorgeously terrifying (terrifyingly gorgeous?), supposedly mythical, definitely dangerous tyrianblood that you're keeping locked up in a "cell".

The room of her own comment was a low blow, and if you hadn't been playing by KK's rules, you definitely would've fucking called her on it, regardless of how true it was or wasn't.

(You hate that you know it was true, and even more than that, you hate that you feel guilty for even considering using the information you have in that realm to your advantage.)

 

“We’ll see what we can do,” you promise Karkat, who gives you a distracted nod. You start a mental countdown, and before you even hit four, someone’s already offering their apologies for having to steal the commander away.

 

* * *

 

"I say we look into the weapons she fights with,” Vriska suggests, flipping over another print-out once Karkat’s made his excuses and headed out the door. This one details a “pink-themed feral with a flaming sword” and sounds a bit more like the plotline to a Troll Assassin’s Creed game than an actual incident report. “Someone in that field might have further information about her training, which is more than we know.”

“Possible,” he allows, but the twitch of his fins disagrees with the words he’s saying. “I wouldn’t put it past )(er Imperious Condescension to _handle_ anyone that’s ever had any interaction with Fef Peixes, though. It’s…stop givin’ me that look, Vris, I’ll prove it.”

Serket, whose gazeorb hairstrips—okay you’ll give thinkpan Eridan that one, _eyebrows_ is a little easier—had slowly been rising upwards, rolls her gazeorbs. “If you’re _sure_ , then go for it.”

 

Eridan sinks both hands into the timeline and _pulls_. The event it stops on has your eyebrows raising high as well. “The Grand Highblood?”

“Mhm.” Eridan’s fingers drag in bits and pieces of things you and Vriska had considered plausible enough, but hadn’t linked into the timeline. There hadn’t been enough to hang them on—at least, not when you were assuming an event of _this_ magnitude was too big for even the Condesce to meddle in. “Some trolls said it was only a matter a time. The clown cultists, those fuckin’ juggalos, they called it a divine judgment from their messiahs. But the seafolk knew. It’s old fashioned to believe that shit, sure, but there’s a _reason_ we keep the tales a the monster in the deeps alive. We know what’s out there, an’ this? This was done on her orders.”

The two of you can’t help but stare up at the timeline, once more feeling the aftershocks of an event that had shaken the galaxy.

 

* * *

 

Everyone— _everyone_ —even the trolls who hadn’t yet been laid, let alone hatched, knew the story of the Grand Highblood’s demise. Alone, in his throne room—the cultists and guards and other hangers-on had come rushing in when they’d heard the sound they were all well acquainted with take on an almost _desperate_ edge.

He’d been laughing, a laugh that had echoed through the Dark Carnival’s halls and walls of tents for sweeps on end, but when the crowd had arrived, his claws were scoring lines in the throne, his expression more panicked and wild than mirthful, and blood was coming up with each deep, booming laugh.

Some had dropped to their knees in prayer, to the unmerciful Mirthful Messiahs, others had tried to help him stop, in a futile attempt that had gotten some of them killed—the Highblood himself had, apparently, been trying to _stop_ laughing since he’d begun to start.

Eridan’s Ancestor, the story went, had been in the room where it happened: he’d taken one look at the troll, gasping for breath between each thunderous _HA_ , and shaken his head.

 

Not long after that, the Grand Highblood lay dead.

 

And now Eridan Ampora himself was telling you that the troll you’d locked up in a room of her own was the one responsible.

“By all the seas and stars,” Serket mutters, quiet as death, and you can’t help but agree.


	4. Compiling Error: Potentially Fatal

The next evening finds you in Karkat’s office, reporting on the mostly-finished timeline. You’re blinking the day-haze out of your eyes; after Eridan’s revelations, sleep had been hard for all three of you to find, and you’d been up until the wee hours, working on things you’d only half-remembered.

“A lot of it is conjecture,” you tell him. The apology you’re hoping is in your voice is mostly covered up with a yawn, and Karkat frowns at you, the same expression that’s gotten him a thousand letters of pale promises and counting. “Okay, _you_ read about how the Grand Highblood’s death is _apparently_ our new favorite prisoner’s fault and try sleeping.”

You get to watch his eyes go wider, as he flips to the relevant section. “ _Shit_. And he’s sure of this?”

“It’s Eridan. He’s sure as fucking death, apparently, and considering his sources…”

“Right, of course.” Karkat closes his eyes for a moment, thinking over the options. There aren’t many available to him—Handmaid, there aren’t many available to _any_ of you. “I...think we need to find out what she did. How she did it. Why.”

“You’re not actually proposing we go down to cells and _ask_ her, are you?” Much as you wouldn’t put it past him to try, you’re going to, for once in your godsdamn life, assume that he’s being intelligent.

“Not _yet_ ,” he says, and your hopes come crashing down with a groan.

 

* * *

 

Not _yet_ entails secrecy of a degree you’d never before thought him possible. Not _yet_ means finding Eridan’s very good source a space free of all Imperial connections, finding Eridan some time to _contact_ that very good source, and finding a place for you and Karkat to hide while he did it.

That said, you really don’t mind visiting Eridan’s Ancestor. He has the good snacks.

 

The only real downside, in your opinion, is that he’s taken something of an _interest_ in the three of you. You know he’s got hundreds of sweeps under his belt, you _know_ he knew your Ancestor, and Karkat’s besides, but it’s still kind of _intense_.

The upside that counters this downside is the sheer amount of “hot Ancestor” jokes you can make at Eridan. It’s fucking _hilarious_.

 

Then again, that would be the _usual_ state of things. Right now, you are keeping your eyes forward and your back straight, as you follow after Eridan and Karkat, down halls that carry the scents of gunpowder and open sea, as closed as they are. There is no flicker of hesitation in any of your almost-clade, and you refuse to let any weakness show in you. For once, you carry yourself like a psionic of old.

And you do your best not to dwell on the fact that you’re here to ask a man to relive some of his worst memories.

 

* * *

 

The Orphaner Dualscar is waiting in a room you’ve seen many times since the beginning of the rebellion. As much as you and Karkat weren’t supposed to know who was behind the funds and aid and education that had come along with Eridan, you didn’t take on the mantle of spymaster to sit about looking pretty in a custom uniform: you’d gone digging, as soon as you could, and the Dualscar _himself_ had come to warn you off.

(You’d be lying if you said you weren’t kind of into it.)

Now he’s sprawled across a chair, as at ease as any great predator of the type, as he flips through a document that you’ve decided to _assume_ is the report you’ve made sure to keep out of any channels and areas that you’re certain he has access to, and a few more you’re uncertain about besides.

As good as you are, he never fails to remind you that he is, in fact, better.

 

“Shall I assume that you’re here about the Highblood?” The insolent drawl is rougher, rounder, a little more sea-stained than it is in Eridan’s mouth, and sparks crawl along your spine in response to it. “There’s a million more things I could add to this timeline, but far be it for me to keep you from starting at the most terrifying one.” Dualscar shifts, righting himself in his chair to look the three of you over. “Could add, and will add, if Captor would be so kind as to grant me access permissions.”

“Happily, sir,” you tell him, not even bothering to hide a smirk. One point for you, and an explanation for why he’d printed everything out instead of bringing along a husktablet. “I’ll take care of that before we head back.”

“ _Sol_ ,” Eridan hisses, embarrassment in the set of his fins.

Dualscar’s fins flick amused, the motion of barely a moment. If you weren’t on high alert, if you hadn’t spent so long tuning your psionic field to the minute motions of seadwellers in general, this set of violets in particular, you wouldn’t have noticed. As it is, you’re a little more at ease as you all take the seats he directs you to. “I appreciate that. Now, then, I’m going to assume this has something to do with the )(eiress? Or are we still calling her the monster in the deeps?”

“Her name’s _Feferi_ ,” Eridan says. Ease is gone—you’re fighting not to be startled. This is the first time you’ve seen Eridan challenge his Ancestor with an audience, even an audience as small as this one.

 

And this is the first time you’ve ever seen the Orphaner Dualscar back down.

 

He holds Eridan’s eyes for a moment, then inclines his head, his fins tucking back and away. “Feferi. Of course.”

Karkat, wary of seadweller spats as ever, cuts in before things devolve any further. “She’s in our holding cells. Sir.”

The tacked on afterthought of subservience has you smirking again. Karkat’s never been good at keeping his head down when he needed to, but then, he could probably say the same thing of you. It’s to your luck that it only seems to amuse Dualscar when he sees it in the both of you. “Sheer luck we snagged her, actually. From what Serket’s told us, she legitimately had no clue we were there.”

You must have missed something that Eridan caught, because you _know_ that sharp intake of breath: whatever it was, he hadn’t been braced for it. “You didn’t know we had her.”

 

Oh, _shit_.

 

“No,” Dualscar says, steady as he’d ever seemed. “I actually didn’t. If you had her, then all logic would dictate that )(er Imperiousness was aware of your operation and its location. The fact that you have her, and the Condesce is unaware...I suppose it puts some of the happenings at court a little more in context.”

“Is there going to be an issue?” Karkat had once wanted to be a threshecutioner; you remember him talking, on and on, about the training, about everything he’d do and be and learn. You can see the soldier in him now, barely trumped by the leader he’s grown to be. “With us, or with her?”

“With her.” He flips through another set of pages, and you get the feeling that he’s trying to avoid your eyes—or maybe his descendant’s. Eridan looks likely to try burning a hole right through his Ancestor with the sheer force of his stare. “She’s heard whispers of a rebellion, to be sure, but she’ll assume her descendant’s playing the rogue sooner than she’ll assume the girl’s been captured.”

“Shit,” Eridan mutters, his hands curling into fits. _Never more than a moment from a strife_. “Okay. We’re not here about that, though, we’ll...we’ll deal with it as it comes. Sir, we need to know what happened to the Grand Highblood.”

“You know, I’d been hoping I’d never need to explain this to anyone else.” Even the self-deprecating tone doesn’t put you at your ease once more. It couldn’t, not now that you’ve realized the truth: Dualscar, _the_ Orphaner Dualscar, the terror of the seas and )(er right hand man, was being _evasive_.

And you’re not the only one who’s realized it. “What the hell could be so fucking awful that even _you_ don’t want to talk about it?” Eridan is not the only one who spends a little too much time in the sparring block. Karkat’s nearly off his seat, his eyes blazing red, and it’s only at a nudge from Eridan that he tacks in a half-hearted “Sir.”

“It’s...a gift,” Dualscar tells the three of you, looking at each of you in turn. You hate it when he tries to take the measure of your soul through a look. “A gift for them, a curse for us, although I’ve heard a tyrian say it felt something like the reverse. It comes from the oldest days, from the War of Turning Tides.”

Sparks flare on you once more, and Eridan’s eyes go wide—the two of you know that name, even if Karkat doesn’t. “One of you explain.”

“I didn’t know the Tyrians were _there_ ,” Eridan says, and glances over at you.

The Orphaner sighs, and reaches for the husktablet you’d thought he hadn’t brought. “You’re reading the wrong books, then, lad. They’re the entire reason the seadwellers won.”

 

When he pulls the projection up for all of you to see, a heavy weight settles on your shoulders and spine. “How did they,” you start, staring at the image of thousands upon thousands of trolls, psionics and seadwellers, coldbloods and warm, every hue of the spectrum alike, bowing down before a small group of finned trolls, glowing with biolum of the purest pink. “How?”

“Your friend Serket,” Dualscar says, then shakes his head. “No, well—it’s not quite right, but it’s about the closest I can come up with to even begin to explain. She’s got all the powers of a cerulean mindspeller, aye?”

“Aye,” Eridan murmurs. He’s already on his feet, moving around the image, like he’ll see something of his lost girl’s soul buried in there. “She’s the strongest one around.”

 

“This is in a class all its own. When a Tyrian speaks, everyone hears, and everyone understands.” Dualscar’s up in a moment as well, and his hand lands heavily on Eridan’s shoulder, comfort and caution all at once. “And, if the time is right, everyone who hears...obeys.”


	5. Further Input Necessary

The trip back to base is far more subdued than the trip over to Dualscar’s was. You’d given Eridan’s Ancestor the access he had requested before the three of you set off, and he’d continued the explanations as you had: certain trolls were more susceptible to a Tyrian’s command than others. It slid right off some trolls, even as it sunk its claws under their skin and _made_ them feel the weight of the words they ignored, and it forced other trolls to drop to their knees the second a Tyrian spoke. It wasn’t something that came easily to every Tyrian, even as it came naturally to every single one.

And, the worst news of all, he’d saved for last:

Feferi had no idea that this was a power she even had.

 

“I had the opportunity to ask when she brought Eridan back,” he’d told the three of you. “It wasn’t long after the Grand Highblood was assassinated, so you can imagine my curiosity—and how shocked I was, when she told me the truth as far as she knew it.”

“If she doesn’t know she can use—what exactly did you call it? {{ Tyrian }}?” The accents and inflections native to the language of power he’s been describing had felt foreign in your mouth, something that had made you feel incredibly behind until Dualscar had reassured you that such wouldn’t come quite as naturally to a psionic as it would a seadweller—or Karkat, for reasons he didn’t seem ready to discuss.

“{{ Tyrian }}, yes.” He’d closed his eyes, as if the scene’s playing itself out behind his eyelids. Strange, how seeing things on him that you’ve grown accustomed to in Eridan can throw you so easily for a loop. “She said that her Ancestor had given her the instructions. Nearly engraved them into her bones, according to her story. Apparently, if they’re out of the challenge, one Tyrian can use that weapon against another.”

“But it’s been a while since then,” Eridan had cut in, his fins set. “Couldn’t she have learned to resist it? Or use it herself?”

“If she’s still locked up? No. Not a chance.”

 

You had been so fucking sure you’d reached your limit for horror when it came to the Condesce, especially after reading through Vriska’s far more detailed reports. You had been _sure_.

It had made the pull you’d felt down towards the “cells” that much more understandable. It had made the underlying guilt you’d felt over her situation that much more palatable.

It hadn’t made standing there in front of her any easier.

 

* * *

 

Feferi Peixes looks up at you from where she’s sprawled over the bed (she’s turned it into something of nest) in what feels like a mockery of Dualscar’s positioning. The prickle runs up your spine again, and you realize that this insolence in the presence of a powerful psionic is not a trait unique to the Ampora line.

And worse, you realize that knowing you’re in the presence of someone so absolutely confident that they could kick your ass without even blinking is...kind of hot.

Shit.

 

When Feferi makes a noise—it’s a surprisingly polite one, based on the glossary of seadweller sounds you’d tracked down (and added to, via patient study)—your ears twitch. “Did you need something, Spymaster Captor?”

Godsdammit. “I have a few questions about some of your past assignments,” you say, as smoothly as you can manage when she’s caught you off guard. “If you’re willing to answer them.”

“That would depend on the questions.” She sits upright, legs crossed, and you notice that her hair curls when it dries. Like this, it’s fluffier, tumbling and riotous, and it seems to take away some of the eerie danger inherent to a feral appearance. You wonder if Eridan knows, and decide to assume that he already does. “I mean, I have a couple of guesses, but I’m not going to give things away unless you ask.”

“Fair enough.” You turn around the semi-comfortable spinny sitting device that someone requisitioned for her block—noting that it seems to be as little-used as the upright work rectangle it’s set up at—and take a seat in it, folding your arms overtop the back and leaning in a little more. “According to Eridan, you had a hand in the death of the Grand Highblood. Care to fill an overworked and under-informed spymaster in on what exactly happened?”

The laughter that follows has you composing a mental apology to Eridan for every shitty comment you’ve ever made. “Seriously? I mean, I’ll buy overworked, but if you expect me to believe that you’re anything less than excellent at your job, Captor, we’re going to have a problem.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Peixes,” you tell her, hoping that it’s true.

“Of course.” You have a feeling she knows it’s not. “I’m not...technically I’m not supposed to talk about what happened to the Grand Highblood.”

“Was it an order?” _Was it {{ Tyrian }}? Could you even tell if it had been?_

Feferi frowns, slowly, and shakes her head—hope grows in your bloodpusher. “Not...technically. It’s just...complicated, and weird. Big political move, and s)(e still hasn’t decided how much s)(e wants people to know about )(er involvement?”

“Yeah, I get that.” Your fingers drum a rhythm on plastic and fabric, as you consider a way to rephrase things. “But—”

“I’m not saying I won’t tell you,” she says, cutting you off. “I’m trying to explain why it’s going to be hard to."

“Okay. Take your time, start whenever you’re ready.”

 

And she does.

 

* * *

 

“My Ancestor has a couple of places that she likes to go for a swim, so we have drop points near there if I need to contact her, but usually when she needs me, she just...calls, and I know I’m supposed to come.” Feferi’s hands move as she speaks, outlining pictures, and you’re put in mind of ancient descriptions in ancient books—not every seadweller that had breached the surface had been hostile, and the histories recorded had often painted these seatrolls as excellent storytellers, no matter what the blood color of the troll scribing them down. “It wasn’t our regular meeting point, or our regular time, but instead of a call, I found a packet, and when I opened it, she’d given me orders to report to a cove we both knew. The one where I was hatched, the one where she found me.”

You nod, making a mental note to see if you can’t pinpoint that spot, and Feferi continues on. “When I met her there, she wasn’t quite herself. It was...weird, seeing her like that? Like she was unsure of her decision, of what she wanted to do, but...she’s usually so self-assured, so _confident_ , you know?” Another nod: you definitely know, even if you’d prefer not to. “Right, well. When she gave me the orders, it was like she wasn’t sure it was the best course of action. And, uh—” Her shoulders drop, slightly. “I questioned her, and her decisions. It was...I didn’t have as much experience then as I do now, and I thought that maybe this was a chance for me—”

Despair has run heavy enough in your life to make it easy to see in her eyes. “What happened next?”

“She was displeased,” she says, and the hollow look in your eyes takes you back to the memories of the _interrogation_ where Karkat pushed just a little too far. “I don’t remember everything, but sometimes when she gives me a job...it feels like a burning imperative. I don’t know how else to describe it. This time...this time, it was like she was using me as a vessel to carry that burning imperative to someone else.”

“Had that ever happened before?”

“It was the first time.” She looks up at you, her hands going still, and at the same time you tick off Dualscar’s theory as “confirmed”, you note that she hasn’t been using any inflections of title for her Ancestor since the start of this conversation. “But it wasn’t the last.”

“What did she tell you to do?”

Her eyes close, her still hands drop into her lap, and she breathes the world in: “S)(e ordered me to sneak into the tents of the Dark Carnival. S)(e ordered me to find the Grand Highblood’s throne room.”

“And once you did?” For once, you wish you had Vriska’s abilities; for once, you think you wouldn’t need them. Her words paint a picture that’s painfully clear, dark halls and dark walls, painted mirthful with the blood of a thousand hilariously pointless sacrifices, a monster of a troll standing tall above her as he rises off his throne, leaning down to offer judgment to a tyrian he might never have known existed.

 

When her eyes snap open, they are all the burning fuchsia you imagine the Grand Highblood saw when he looked his own death in the eye. “I told him to {{ laugh }}.”


End file.
